I'll Always Come For You
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: John will always come for Sherlock. It's as simple as that. Always, if he gets the chance to. And this time, he prays with all his heart that it is not too late already. /Two parts.
1. Part 1

_Something new. This happens when I am watching Doctor Who and inspiration strikes me in the meantime..._

_Mentions of torture, though nothing graphic. Friendship, no slash._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**I'll Always Come For You**

Part 1

* * *

John Watson's heart had stopped three hours ago.

It had been fluttering unsteadily, in fact, since that very moment when Lestrade had called him, had informed him that Nicholas Wilson had broken out of prison, a rapist, who had, years ago, been sent to jail because Mary Watson, his wife, and one of her friends had testified against him.

Days later, it had received its first shock when Lestrade had phoned him again, had informed him that Wilson was probably after Mary, after Mary and maybe, just maybe, after their daughter.

Then it had been able to calm down a tiny bit, calm down because Sherlock, since John had told him, of course, stupid, in retrospect, so very stupid, had arranged for Mary to be brought to a safe place, a place only he and John and Mycroft knew about, together with their little daughter.

It had been fine, with Sherlock and Mycroft and the Yard all working on catching Wilson, on finding him.

Fine. At least that was what John had assumed.

Until Lestrade had called him, asking anxiously if Sherlock was with him - who wasn't.

John's heartbeat had accelerated, a cold stone had located itself where his stomach had used to be, jelly replacing his brain.

Sherlock.

Not even two hours later, he had, pacing, having left at least ten messages in reply to Sherlock's voicemail and having sent close to forty texts, received another phone call, and when he had heard Mycroft's voice, he had known that something was wrong.

Because apparently, Wilson had Sherlock.

The mobile gliding out of his numb hands, John's heart had stopped.

* * *

That had been three hours ago.

Three hours.

And more than six, according to the CCTV recordings Mycroft had discovered, since Wilson had got hold of Sherlock.

"He wants information," were Mycroft's words while John was pacing, pacing around, forcing air into his lungs.

"Information?" Greg echoed, once seated behind his desk, but now, too, walking, walking around in his office, scratching his head every ten seconds.

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed, sitting perfectly calmly. "Information on your wife, John. On where she is hiding."

John's head shot up, and for a moment, he believed to have felt a short flutter of life in his chest once more.

Until he realised the full meaning of what Mycroft had said.

Information.

As soon as one had read through the crimes Wilson had been convicted of, had seen how he had got hold of Sherlock - had lured him, together with a companion, into a narrow alley, had knocked him out with some kind of bat, had packed his lifeless body into a small car and driven off -, it became clear that him wanting information would not be drinking tea. Would not be asking nicely, politely, pleasantly. But would consist of torture, of violence.

And not only information, but information on Mary. On the presumably safe place she was staying at with their daughter.

"We have, of course, removed her from the house already, somewhere else," Mycroft explained only seconds later, and somehow, this sentence made John only more sick.

Because it implied that Mycroft assumed his brother would talk. Assumed Wilson would make him talk. And John did not want to imagine how much it took to get Sherlock Holmes to spill secrets.

A short nod was all he managed towards Mycroft, all he managed at all.

"So he'll…," Lestrade began, silencing himself. "He'll torture him? Sherlock, I mean? Just because he thinks Sherlock knows where Mary is?"

John's ears desperately did not want to hear anything, did not want to hear at all, did not want to hear Mycroft's short answer: "I am afraid so, yes."

Lestrade cursed. John did not even flinch, just continued his pacing. Two days ago, he had sat right in front of this desk, together with Sherlock, talking about Wilson. Together with Sherlock.

"Wilson is not a patient man, I gather as much," Mycroft went on, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

John stared out of the window, concentrated on every tiny stain on the glass. Minimal. But existing.

As were their chances, probably.

"We will have to be quick."

* * *

Three hours ago. Seven hours ago, more than seven, in fact, John had last seen his best friend.

Seen him and stormed off, in fury, in rage, in anger.

"Calm down," Sherlock had told him.

John had huffed, exasperated, annoyed. "Calm!" he had returned, burying his face in his hands. "How could I be calm?"

"They are safe, John," Sherlock had reassured him. "I don't understand, John. Why are you still so upset? Mary and your child are safe."

"Safe!" John had exploded, pointing his finger at Sherlock. "Safe? With this maniac still out there, they're… they're not."

He remembered Sherlock's reply, in a voice so almost casual: "They are, John. Only three people know where they are, and I'll…"

"Don't you tell me they're safe!" John had shouted, losing his temper, all of a sudden, losing it.

Had shouted. Now it made him wince.

"Because they are-," Sherlock had begun again, and John very vividly recalled how he had almost thrown a fist into his best friend's face.

"They're NOT!" he had yelled, panting, breathing hard, grimacing in pain. "How could you understand, hm? You've never had to care about your wife and your child, never had to worry… How would you know about that kind of _love_?"

And with that, he had stormed out, his heart shattering a little because of the words he had used, words intended to hurt Sherlock, to really hurt him, because John knew, of course, always had known, that he _cared_. That he loved.

And yet, he had not returned to take them back. To apologise, rather, because words like these could never be taken back.

Seven hours later, he wished with all his might that he could make this moment disappear, erase it, change it. Wished he had not uttered them, not a single one of them, in the first instance. Wished he had gone back, apologised, grabbed Sherlock and had not let go of him, had protected him from what was to come. And wished to have his best friend back, safe and well.

But he could not, change anything, that was, and so his body remained numb, his thoughts dulled by horror, and his heart frozen in terror.

And Sherlock remained lost.

* * *

John did not sit around to watch Mycroft and Lestrade, to watch them doing nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing, at least, that brought them any step closer to finding Sherlock.

He had watched the video once, had stared at Sherlock's motionless form being dragged away and stuffed into a boot.

Had heard his own words ringing in his ears, over and over again. Again. Again.

The thought of what Wilson might do to Sherlock... It made him sick. It terrified him. It froze him in horror.

He had gone home, to his flat, despite Mycroft and Sherlock and Lestrade's earlier insistence that he should not, if possible, go near that place as long as Wilson was free, had grabbed his old army gun, and wandered, simply wandered the streets of London, the alley where Sherlock had been taken, the place where it had happened, that had caused his heart to stop.

And hoped, with every breath, with every fibre of his being, that his phone would ring, that it was Sherlock, saying that he was fine, that he had overpowered Wilson, that everything was alright… or that it was Mycroft, telling him they had found his brother, telling him he was OK, a bit bruised, but alive and well…

His phone did not make a single sound.

After hours, or at least it felt like hours, he sat down, on a kerb somewhere, and pulled out his phone, dialling Sherlock's number. Listening to his voicemail.

Simply listening.

And remembering the three years he had spent previously, had spent without his heart beating, too.

And buried his head in his hands, the gun securely tucked beneath his belt, and cried.

* * *

It was nearing night when he came back to the Yard, came back to Lestrade's office to find Mycroft still there, still deep in concentration, apparently, but without anything to go on. Without anything, in fact, except for the street where Wilson had got Sherlock.

Dead bodies did not need sleep, and John did not even think about sleeping that night. How could he sleep when somewhere else, somewhere close, maybe, Sherlock was suffering in the hands of a maniac?

Mary was safe, though, as Mycroft kept reassuring him. Safe. Safe, apparently. As Sherlock had told him. And in contrast to Sherlock.

* * *

The next morning found John Watson sitting on a window sill, staring out into the dawn, staring outside, blindly, seeing nothing.

And Mycroft and Greg were still as clueless as hours before.

How long could one survive without his heart beating? John wondered when the sun rose over the building opposite of him.

Three years, apparently, and longer, maybe.

Longer. Once he had the certainty that Sherlock was dead, and that Mary was safe, Mary and their baby, and that Wilson was gone forever.

Longer.

How much longer?

And how much longer now, when he did not know anything, anything at all? Did not even know if Sherlock was still alive, and had no means and no knowledge of contacting Mary.

John simply closed his eyes, but it did nothing to help him forget.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Part 2 is to follow soon. Please let me know what you think._


	2. Part 2

_Thank you so much for your positive response!_

_Once more, mentioning of torture, but nothing graphic. No blood, but screaming._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**I'll Always Come For You**

Part 2

* * *

It took nineteen hours, nineteen hours since John had been informed, for Mycroft to have a revelation, an orgasmic oh-experience, a sudden realisation.

Within minutes, the MI6 was called - courtesy of Mycroft -, the police was informed, and they all headed off, somewhere, anywhere, John did not even bother to find out where.

All he needed to know was: Sherlock.

Lestrade had wanted to leave him behind, Mycroft had wanted to leave him behind, John's body demanded from him to be left behind, but he would not have it. He would not stay back, not this time. No.

Not when it was about Sherlock.

* * *

A sudden feeling, a sudden urge, a sensation of dread had prompted John to go ahead, to leave Lestrade and his men behind, to leave Mycroft's men behind, to take another turn, to take a different route through the repair shop, ducking behind parked cars, his gun ready, ready to shot anybody who might cross his way.

He could hear his own breathing, nothing but his own breathing, not his heartbeat, not the others behind him, no-one in front of him.

His own breathing.

Doors appeared at both sides of the hallway, doors leading to rooms, to so many rooms… and stairs, stairs down, to a cellar, probably.

Without hesitation, John chose the cellar.

Another small hallway, with two doors. Two doors. And no-one in sight. Good sign, maybe, or bad sign.

John broke the first door.

Storage room. Nothing, in fact.

The second one.

Storage room. Again, nothing.

His hands started trembling, the breath escaped his lips.

Nothing.

Until he discovered the third door.

Thick, seemingly, and new. And locked.

Not made of wood. Not easy to force open.

With a shout of warning, he aimed at the lock and shot. And again. And a third time.

Then, slowly, reaching out his right hand, he pushed the door open.

* * *

Had John Watson still felt like a living, breathing human being, he would have collapsed on the spot. Collapsed, he assumed, his heart failing.

But nothing, he figured right now, would ever be worse than these hours of waiting, of not knowing.

Although this moment, the very moment when the door slowly swung open, revealing a dark room, very dim, with the silhouette of one person inside, one limp person, came very close.

Forgetting all thoughts about Wilson and catching him and about being careful, John rushed forward, rushed forward towards the wall furthest from him…

Only to stop dead when another figure appeared, having crouched down, having been hidden from John's view, from his eyes, focused on Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…

"Don't move," a voice hissed. "Drop your gun."

John did.

Recognised that raised wand, connected to a wire, leading somewhere, leading… to a power socket.

Recognised what the man - Wilson - was about to do.

Recognised what he had done before.

To Sherlock. To his best friend.

Who was hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, his head lolled forward, trembling, shivering, not wearing much.

"And now, step backwards," Wilson demanded, raising the… thing in his hand higher, raising it towards Sherlock's head, towards…

John growled and lunged forward.

Wilson flinched and Sherlock screamed.

Screamed.

John's body hit flesh.

Whether he himself received an electric shock, or whether he accidentally shocked Wilson, he did not know later, neither did he remember how long it all took, how long until Wilson was unconscious beneath his hands, how long until the burning rage inside John, the wild fury making him want to shock Wilson countless times, to tear him apart, to beat him to a slow death, disappeared, until he could see clear enough to look up.

"Sherlock," he whispered, and all of a sudden, his heartbeat was back, hammering in his chest, threatening to make his entire body explode, making him dizzy, making him gasp for breath.

John didn't have a knife, didn't have anything to cut the ropes which were holding Sherlock, which were tied around his wrists, excoriated, bloodied, didn't have…

Close to a panic, he started searching Wilson, his clothes, his pockets, while his ears continued to perceive Sherlock's laboured breathing, his laboured breathing that assured John that his friend was still alive, and found, finally, a pocket knife.

And yet, John was too short. Too short, too…

"Hold on," he whispered, hoping, praying, sprinting to the next room, grabbing the first box he could lay hands on, sprinted back, placed it on the floor, climbed onto it, drew the knife, and finally, finally, finally, managed to cut the rope.

Sherlock sagged down immediately, limp and heavy, sagged against John, knocking him off balance. All John could do was to make sure that the knife did not injure his best friend further, that it did not cut his exposed skin anywhere, that Sherlock landed as softly as possible.

Slumped against the wall, John pressed Sherlock against himself for a second, a split-second, took in his scent, his living body beneath his hands - before leaning him against the wall, pressing two fingers to his throat, studying him, scanning him.

The best friend he had not expected to see again.

Ripped off the blindfold fastened behind the back of his head, took in his ghostly white face, his blueish lips, his slackness.

"Sherlock," he whispered, just to say his name, and to his surprise, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open, revealing unfocused grey orbs, revealing what John had been missing.

"Didn' tell… where… Mary…," was the first thing Sherlock forced out in between his gasping, his panting, his ragged breathing.

Pulse. Too fast, unsteady, and thready. But there. But there.

_Didn't tell where Mary._

_How would you know about that kind of love?_

For a moment, John closed his eyes, relief flooding over him, relief that Sherlock was alive, shame, guilt, fear. "I know," he croaked, resting his hand against Sherlock's chin, feeling his cold and clammy skin.

"…din'…," Sherlock breathed once more, shivering, trembling, almost convulsing.

Electric shock. Many times, probably. Being bound by the wrists. Damage.

"I know," John repeated, hoarsely, whispered. Didn't care whether Sherlock was telling the truth or whether he wasn't. Because it was not important. Not important. "It's OK now. You're safe now."

Sherlock seemed to slump a tiny bit, his eyes closed.

"How many times did he… did he…," John began, his voice breaking.

What had Wilson done to his best friend?

Sherlock's only answer was a shaky inhale. Followed by silence. And then, slowly: "As… long've… been… 'ere…"

John pressed his eyes shut, doing everything to ban the red rage, to focus on his best friend.

"John," Sherlock whispered, ghastly pale against the dark wall, his lips blue and purplish, his hair damp. "Mary's safe… kept her… safe…"

Removing his jacket quickly, he put it around Sherlock, around his torso, covered his bruised and burnt skin.

"You did," he croaked, grabbing his gun once more, slowly getting to his feet.

Out. They needed to get out of here. Out of the cold, out of the dampness, away from Wilson, from this place.

Mycroft's men and the Yarders were taking their time, certainly.

Time Sherlock didn't have.

John made his decision.

Bending down again and resting Sherlock's limp arm around his neck. Hospital. He needed a hospital. Quickly. Putting his own arm behind Sherlock's back, beneath his legs, right beneath his knees.

"Knew you… 'd… come…," Sherlock breathed, the muscles beneath his skin still convulsing.

Carefully, but swiftly, John picked him up. Sherlock groaned. John's heart missed a beat.

"I'll always come for you," he forced out, cradling Sherlock close. "What did he do to you?"

Now, with Sherlock pressed so close to him, to his own body, John became even more aware of how strained his breathing was, how uneven.

"Shocked…," Sherlock slurred. "Wanned… know where Mary… was… didn' tell… couldn'…"

Shocked.

Didn't tell.

Only then something else occurred to John. Rapist. Wilson was a rapist. "Did he… did he… touch you," he croaked, tightening his grip around Sherlock, almost choking on his own words.

Sherlock whimpered as John shifted his weight. "Touch…," he mumbled. "No… didn', John… hm…"

And as if John's heart had received an electric shock, too, it continued its fast beating, its thumping against the living body in his arms, against Sherlock, his best friend.

Hospital, John could only think, hospital. Nerve damage, shock, dehydration, tissue damage, breathing, heart, circulation, burns, concussion from his being knocked out, long-term effects…

Electric shocks, repeatedly. Torture. Real torture.

A growl found its way out of his throat, past the lump in there, a growl which intensified the very moment he thought back to how he had found Sherlock, half-naked, bound and blindfolded, a growl which, had they still been in the same room, would have meant ill for Wilson.

Sherlock was heavy in his arms, heavy and unresponsive and breathing shallowly, but alive. And that was what counted in that very moment.

* * *

John went past all of them, past the Yarders, past Mycroft's men, past Lestrade who paled at the sight of his precious charge, past the cars parked, through the doors, outside.

Straight over to the ambulance that had arrived with them, into the back of the vehicle, and only then he let go of Sherlock, softly placed him on the stretcher.

"Wilson's downstairs," he told Lestrade who came rushing towards him, clearly panicked. No mercy for Wilson. "Leave him to Mycroft."

Lestrade nodded and left.

When he looked back to Sherlock, covered with a thermal blanket by now, with an oxygen mask strapped to his face and paramedics busy around him, his heart performed a painful leap. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispered, gripping Sherlock's cold hand, motionless hand.

And felt his squeeze being returned, clumsily, weakly, by shivering fingers. "You'd… still've… Mary," Sherlock breathed, almost unintelligibly by now.

Yes, Mary. Mary and Catherine, their baby, but not Sherlock. Not Sherlock. And that alone was unimaginable.

"We are going to sedate him now," a paramedic told him. John found he could only nod, blinking heavily to keep tears from spilling.

"I'll be… fine," Sherlock told him, breathlessly. "Don' worry 'bout…" His eyelids flickered. "Mary… give her my… my… re… gards, and your dau…"

Mid-sentence, his eyes closed, his hand went limp in John's grip.

"Are you family?" one paramedic wanted to know.

"Yes," John choked out, still feeling the thumping inside of his chest, feeling the living skin beneath his fingertips.

Without any further delay, the ambulance sped away, carrying both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Hours later, John was sitting in a hospital room, his little daughter in his arms, slumbering peacefully, his wife, fine and healthy, on a chair next to him. Sherlock, sleeping, dead to the world, in the bed, pale and exhausted and in fact _tortured_, but stable, as the almost steady beeps of the heart monitor assured John, and physically likely to recover. The dislocated shoulder likely to heal, the broken wrist likely to heal, cardiac arrhythmia bound to disappear, dehydration being combated already with intravenous fluids.

"I don't think I could bear losing any of you," he muttered to his daughter, to his daughter because she was the only one who could not understand yet, who would not understand.

With each breath, life coursed through his veins, with each heartbeat. Heartbeat.

_I don't think I could bear losing any of you._

Any of you.

"It's over, John," Mary whispered, sounding exhausted.

Yes. Over.

* * *

"Why didn't you just tell him where Mary was? You knew that Mycroft would take her somewhere else, didn't you?" John whispered, one arm still around his daughter, still slumbering, the hand of the other one resting on the mattress, just inches away from Sherlock's pale fingers, from his damaged wrist wrapped thickly into white bandages.

"Couldn' take any risk," Sherlock mumbled slowly, flatly. Exhaustedly. "Know you… you love your… fam'ly…"

And hoarsely. Hoarse, his voice was hoarse, from screaming in pain, probably, screaming as he had screamed when John had attacked Wilson, but had not been able to stop him from shocking Sherlock one last time.

As an answer, John's fingers moved, moved towards Sherlock's… and clenched them. "Not only my family," he whispered equally hoarsely, in his case because of the lump in his throat and the fury threatening to suffocate him, staring at Catherine's sleeping face.

Sherlock turned his head away, not loosening, however, his grip on John's hand, not ending the contact. "Ev'ry… one has… priorities," his best friend murmured, closing his eyes.

"Yes," John croaked.

Priorities. He had three, in fact.

Three.

And he also understood what Sherlock hadn't said, what he probably hadn't even intended to say: what - or who - his were.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock muttered only seconds later, his gaze directed at John once more. Hazy, through pain medication, veiled, tired. But Sherlock.

"This time," John told him darkly, not thinking, simply saying it.

Sherlock's lips quivered. "An' next… time," he mumbled, letting his eyes flicker shut again. "…'ve got… you."

And he and Mary and Catherine had Sherlock.

"Of course you have," he replied instead, replied and tried to control his voice, to force it to sound casual, to sound normal. And failing. "I told you. I'll always come for you."

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Please let me know what you think._


End file.
